Flawless
by suicidal-seme
Summary: M for language. Axel's POV. "You don't even notice me staring at you with you although if you stopped being self absorbed and actually took a look at the picture, you would see my reflection as well. What would you see though? Longing or perversion?"


You wouldn't know it, but I love you.

It's seven in the evening at our shared house, in a small town, in the middle of a secluded part of San Francisco. The night life is beckoning you. Only but a quick metro subway fee away.

My favourite show is on. The remnants of dinner sit in what used to be your mom's silver cooking pot. My dad's recipe of authentic spaghetti and meatballs sits inside. Your perfume "Lush Twilight" overcomes the leftover Italian scent.

I gaze over at you, staring at your reflection in the hall way mirror. You continue to primp your self-styled hair, tug at the bottom of your too-tight shirt, uncreasing any imaginary wrinkles.

Flawless.

You don't even notice me staring at you with you although if you stopped being self absorbed and actually took a look at the picture, you would see my reflection as well. What would you see though? Longing or perversion?

Then you smile and turn to me.

"How do I look?"

How do I answer that? Here he stands before me like a canvas waiting to be judged.

Flawless.

"You look like my next fuck."

Teasing and joking is my greatest defense. That how I am around you. Guarded.

You just laugh and look back into the mirror. "In your dreams."

My deepest and most wishful ones. Although you're far more than just a fuck. You're fucking incredible.

"Ha-ha, my wet ones, specifically."

Now you cringe. I'll make it up though.

"You look fine, doll."

"I don't want to look desperate..."

Your voice trails into your hand, a hand that graces your breath.

I could've told you that your breath is flawless.

"Babe, you don't have to look desperate because you ARE desperate!"

You're flawless and it tears me up. Forgive me for bringing you down because of your perfection.

I despise those men you continue to share yourself with. You're spoiling the scum of the city. Rich. Gorgeous. Witty. Clever. Flawless like you.

Which brings me to question where you found the next lucky bastard.

My curiosity kills me, making me crueler.

"I met him at Jack in the Box."

Why do you twist the tip of your hair around that finger of yours playfully? Are you thinking of him? Was he a cashier that payed your meal and threw in a free dessert? Was he a business man from out of town who complimented you and impressed you with his conversation? Or was he the manager whom wanted to have a private word with you, feeding you dirty words and promises if you returned to his place late at night.

I sneer in disgust at these thoughts, call you a bad name. It's this twisted imagination of mine that makes me mean. It's with the flawlessness you carry that makes me rude.

"... You jealous?"

Your eyes direct themselves towards me, reclined on the sofa, your tongue teasing me with assumptions.

Yes.

"No, I'm just joking. Why are you being sensitive?"

My sensitivity makes me spiteful.

"'Cause I'm gay."

There you go again, running your fingers through your hair, softening up the spray holding every delicate strand in place.

I can't resist but to think of him, whoever the hell tonight "him" is, running his fingers through your hair as you are now. I get lost in despicable thought as "he" is now moving his hands down your back, to your rear end.

You happen for to once take notice of my locked gaze and tempt me with your flawless ass.

"What's this, you want in my pants?"

Why do you treat me like a dog, teasing me with your body and voice but to then run away while the real dog is licking his lips in anxiety, waiting for you tonight?

"Y'know, if we were dating- Then I'd probably be fucking YOU all the time instead of random hot guys."

With your nose in the air and tone matter-of-factly, I got to wonder if you are challenging me.

You're breaking my guard and trying to reveal the bare truth.

The exposure is making me bitter.

"What if I pretended to be a random hottie?"

"Pft, you're not that good an actor."

You think you're winning. You stray from the hall to the front door, sliding your shoes on. You're done with me, ready to leave.

Ha. My acting is far from bad if you think you know anything, Rox.

I don't want you to go out tonight. I haven't taken my eyes off you for one second. They crave your flawlessness. It makes me mention terrible realities.

"You know, you're gonna catch HIV from letting all those random dudes cum in your ass."

Think about that and tell me you don't wanna go and would rather sit by me on the couch.

You're unswayed though. You promise you use protection, as if I was your pestering mother. You promise you don't have sex with all of them. I doubt that.

"... So stop calling me a whore."

"I didn't call you a whore."

Whores aren't flawless.

One last chance to keep you from walking out towards the arms and into the sheets of some man.

The cruder the words, the more desperate I'm holding onto you.

"Now get your greedy ass outta here before I do something about it."

Please keep fighting me and ask me what I'd do. I dare you. I plead you. I beg you.

"I live here too. So fuck off."

You've left.

"Lush" lingers then drifts away.

"Fuck me."

Nicotine in a small packed cylinder soothes out the stress of holding up defense.

"And my life."

I don't want to think anymore. I don't want to hide behind smirks and sneers. I don't want to not have you anymore.

You wouldn't know it, but God be damned, Roxas, I love you.


End file.
